


Building safety nets under my feet

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fake it till you make it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Building safety nets under my feet

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. 3,343 words.

1.

Sam heads back to the hospital to see Bobby. Figures it's the least he can do after all the trouble he's caused. It'll do Bobby some good to have someone with him when he goes home, even if that someone is Sam.

There's work to be done once they get back to the old house, work no one else has the time to do, but Sam's got nothing but time now, at least for a little while. At least until the world ends. He feels like he's already lived through the apocalypse more times than any one person should have to, but it's bigger this time, whole-world big, even if it's just as personal as every time before.

He tries not to get stuck inside his own head, lets the work of cleaning Bobby's house focus him. He sets up a makeshift bedroom in the study, since Bobby's not making it upstairs any time soon. There are piles of books to be sorted, a path cleared between them and the furniture for the wheelchair Bobby swears he's not going to be in forever. Sam doesn't say that forever might come sooner than they think. He knows Bobby already knows.

He goes to the local hardware store and the local surgical supply, installs a bath bench and a raised toilet seat in the first floor bathroom, and grab bars all around.

Construction was always Dean's gig, but Sam knows his way around a workbench well enough; he's suddenly thankful for the semester of shop Dad insisted he take, for the patience Dean showed in teaching him to use the tools. He tries not to think about how he's exhausted that patience, finally, took it for granted until it wore away.

He measures and specs out a ramp for the front of the house, comes back from the lumberyard with enough wood to build the thing, and ignores the fact that it's at least a two-man job. The soreness in his muscles and the crick in his back are much easier pains to focus on than the phantom ache in the back of his mind. He spends a few hours filling out paperwork for permits that Bobby refuses to sign, the legalese they're written in requiring all his attention.

Bobby's as irascible as ever, and though he's still insisting he'll walk again--and it's not like they don't have resources most people can't even dream of--Sam can't see more than what's in front of him at the moment. One day at a time, he tells himself (though he knows better than to say it to Bobby), and tries not to roll his eyes at the cliché.

He'd had friends at Stanford who'd gone to AA, and he finds a meeting in town, in the basement of the Episcopalian church, makes it as far as the cab of Bobby's pickup before he realizes it would just be one more set of lies, and he's tired of lying.

At night, he and Bobby hit the books, trying to find something--anything--that'll help them win this war. Prophecy's written by madmen, though, divine or demonic, and there's no real way to tell the difference until after something is proved false. Or comes true. Either way, unless they can figure out which is which before it happens, it doesn't matter. It's all useless. Chuck tries to help, but now that they know Zachariah can screw with his visions, they're less a roadmap and more a minefield.

The problem, Sam thinks, is that way too many prophecies are self-fulfilling, but he can't see a way clear of them, a way to fight destiny without succumbing to it at the same time.

Dean checks in with Bobby a couple of times, and Sam listens to their one-sided conversations like he's doing penance. Bobby offers him the phone, but Sam's pretty sure Dean didn't ask him to, so he doesn't take it. It's hard, but it's easier than talking right now. At least this way, he knows Dean is all right, and Bobby can tell Dean he's doing okay in return.

Eight days into his sabbatical, a pair of hunters named Hector and Felix show up at Bobby's, talking about a plague of locusts that took out a town in Wyoming, and Sam feels all the calm he's cultivated drain away.

"I think it's time I was on my way," he says to Bobby while Hector and Felix are arguing over some obscure bit of Latin.

Bobby lays a hand on Sam's arm. "You're always welcome here, Sam."

"Thanks, Bobby." He squeezes Bobby's hand gently, and heads upstairs to bed.

The next morning dawns cool and sunny, and in addition to a bag packed with sandwiches and a trunk packed with weapons, Sam leaves with a list of contacts from Bobby--librarians and museum curators and university professors who might have some insight to share, some light to shed, or some mystical artifact to help them stop the world from ending.

Sam throws the truck into drive and heads west, glad to be on the move again.

*

2.

As much as Sam's gotten used to having Dean back, to spending most of his time in the passenger seat, being alone on the road has its own hateful familiarity. He doesn't have anywhere in particular he needs to be, so he just drives. As much as he's always wanted to settle somewhere and put down roots, he knows it's not safe. He might not want to hunt, but that doesn't mean the angels and demons have stopped hunting him.

There's a storm threatening when he pulls into the parking lot of the Applebee's, and it's raining buckets by the time he's done with his burger, late summer thunderstorm raging in a way that makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He splays a thankful hand over his ribs for a moment while he's running to the truck.

He figures he'll stop at the nearest motel, but he hits a stretch of empty highway, nothing for the next eighteen miles, according to the green highway signs, so he settles in for the white knuckle drive, thankful no one else is crazy (stupid) enough to be out in this weather, because visibility is for shit. The regular rhythm of the windshield wipers is hypnotic, but he can't be bothered with trying to find a station that will come in and he can't stand listening to static.

Around mile seven, he does a double-take when he sees what looks like a person on the side of the road, thumb stuck out in what can only be desperation. He's not going fast to begin with, but he eases down on the brake and takes in the small, dark hand, nails trimmed neatly and painted pink, the soaked sweatshirt that could be blue or green or black when it's dry, and the heart-shaped face framed by long braids, mouth curved in a tentative, hopeful smile.

It's dangerous, and he's going to regret it when she turns out to be possessed by Baal or something, but he can't drive past without stopping, not in this weather.

"Hi," she says, as she climbs into the passenger seat and drops her soaked backpack onto the floor.

"Rough night out there for hitching a ride."

She shrugs. "Had a fight with my boyfriend."

"And he left you on the side of the road?" Another shrug. "Sounds like a real prince."

"He has his moments."

Sam lets it go. "There's coffee in the thermos." He nods his chin at the thermos sitting on the seat between them. "I refilled it a few miles back. It's probably not hot anymore, but--" It's his turn to shrug. She doesn't need to know he watered it down with holy water. After Bobby got possessed, Sam's not going to take anymore stupid chances.

"Thanks." She drinks a few mouthfuls without hissing and steaming, and Sam relaxes a little.

"I'm Sam, by the way."

"Yvette." She unzips her backpack and digs around for a few seconds before coming up with a relatively dry sweatshirt. She shrugs out of the wet one she's wearing and pulls the dry one over her head. It says "Property of the Oakland Athletics" on it.

"I went to Stanford," he offers, and the look she gives him in return says, So?

Sam shrugs again. He doesn't need to talk.

They ride in silence for a little while. The awkwardness of it is familiar enough to Sam after the past few months riding beside Dean, but Yvette finally breaks, reaching out to turn on the radio. She flicks through the stations, muttering softly as she hits static, static, country, static, and some kind of fire and brimstone preacher, ranting about the end of the world.

"Not that," Sam says.

"Don't you have an iPod or something?" she asks, settling back on the country station. Sam doesn't recognize the song, but he doesn't mind the mournful twang.

"No."

"Damn."

"Where you headed?"

"Oakland."

Sam nods and grunts neutrally.

"I got into Berkeley, but I wanted to go to Ohio State with Eddie. My mom--she didn't like that too much."

Sam nods again.

"The worst part is, she was right."

Sam glances over, but Yvette is staring out the window at the rain.

"Yeah," he says. "I know how that goes."

She meets his gaze, level and sincere, and then starts laughing. "Man, it really sucks when they're right, doesn't it?"

He can't help but join in. "It really does."

He's going to tell her that he'll drop her at the next rest stop, because he's ready to turn in for the night, but by the time they get there, they've driven out of the storm, the clouds thinning above to let the stars shine through, and he'd rather drive than sleep, especially now that he's got someone else in the truck with him.

"I can drop you here if you want," he says, "but I'm probably going to drive all night, hit Springfield in the morning. There's a bus station there."

"Thanks," she says, smiling. "I'd really appreciate that."

He reaches out, turns up the radio just in time for Kenny Chesney to sing "I'm Alive." He's not comfortable enough to actually sing along (and he should probably be embarrassed that he knows all the words, but he figures his taste in music is currently the least shameful thing he's got going), but he hums, and laughs at the look on Yvette's face.

*

3.

Sam adds the pack of M&amp;Ms to his small pile of groceries without thinking about it, and he's getting ready to put them back when the little girl in line in front of him says, "I like M&amp;Ms."

He holds the package out to her, but before she can take it, the boy holding her hand says, "Don't take candy from strangers, Maggie."

Sam tries not to take that personally as he puts the bag back in the rack.

"Are you a giant?" Maggie asks, tipping her head back to look up at him. Her ponytail holders have big, plastic, yellow daisies on them. They're kind of freakish, actually, like an extra pair of unblinking eyes. "You look like a giant. I bet you're a nice giant."

"There's no such thing as giants, Maggie." The kid's tone is weary, as if they've had this conversation more times than he can count. Sam tries to ignore the yellow-green of an old bruise on the thin skin beneath the boy's eyes, the worn and faded look of his and Maggie's clothes, probably bought at Goodwill and washed and worn until they're frayed or outgrown, but it's all too familiar. He feels an aching tightness in his chest and takes a deep breath to try to ease it.

"There is too."

The kid puts his groceries up on the conveyer belt and huffs in annoyance. "If you say so." He gives Sam an apologetic look and Sam shrugs. The kids are better off not knowing the truth.

The cashier looks bored through the whole exchange, ringing up the kid's items and bagging them. "Twenty-seven fifty-nine," she says, holding out a hand for the money.

"I want M&amp;Ms, Jake." Maggie tugs on Jake's sleeve as he slowly counts out a wad of wrinkled singles. Sam thinks there might be a five in there somewhere, but he's pretty sure the kid's going to be short.

"Not now, Maggie." Jake's attention stays focused on the money in his hand. "I only have nineteen, and," he digs around in his pocket, lays his change on the counter, "thirty-seven cents."

The cashier sighs. "Look, kid--"

"You can take the tuna out," Jake says, mouth tight and face red with embarrassment. "And the waffles."

"But you said we were having waffles for dinner, Jake. You promised." Maggie's eyes are wide and her lower lip is trembling. She can't be more than five or six, and Jake is probably about nine or ten. Sam's not good at estimating kids' ages, but he knows they're not old enough to be out grocery shopping alone.

Sam reaches into his pocket, pulls a twenty out of his wallet, and hands it to Jake. "Here."

Jake looks like he wants to cry. "Mister, I can't--"

"It's okay," Sam says. "You can owe me one."

"Can we get M&amp;Ms too, Jake?" Maggie asks, clapping her hands.

Sam offers a package of M&amp;Ms and Maggie takes it in her chubby little hand. He takes a pack for himself as well. He hopes she doesn't have peanut allergies.

"Thanks," Jake says, still embarrassed. He nudges Maggie. "Say thank you."

"Thank you. I knew you were a nice giant."

"Maggie." Jake rolls his eyes and Sam smiles.

The cashier offers him change but he shakes his head and points to Jake. "I think that belongs to him."

"I can't pay you back," Jake says, pocketing the change and hefting his bag of groceries in one hand, his other hand wrapping around Maggie's wrist again.

"You will someday."

Jake gives him a quick, grateful smile and Maggie turns around and waves when they reach the door. Sam pays for his own groceries and hopes the world lasts long enough for Jake to pay it forward.

*

4.

Sam sits in the parking lot and watches for a few minutes, trying to size up the clientele of the bar. He might have given up hunting, at least for now, but he still needs money to live, and the past few years don't exactly look good on a resume.

The place is a college hangout, recommended by the professor friend of Bobby's Sam's just visited (fruitlessly; the guy might study eschatology, but he doesn't seem to actually believe in it). It's the kind of place he was familiar with in Palo Alto, and while he usually plays the drunk college kid when he and Dean hustle, he thinks this time he'll take the dumb townie role that Dean usually plays.

He swallows hard and tries not to think about Dean. He squares his shoulders and pushes a hand through his hair, and then he's knocked against the driver's side door of the pickup by a bright white light and a blastwave that shatters the bar's windows.

The door swings open and Sam blinks, trying to clear the afterimage and get his night vision back.

"You don't want to go in there." It's Anna, breathless and a little windblown. "Are you all right?"

He nods. "What's going on?"

She looks past him, puzzled, and says, "Nothing I couldn't handle. Where's Dean?"

"I--" Sam shrugs. "I don't know."

"What?"

"We--we decided to go our separate ways for a while, take some time," Sam starts and then stops, because that sounds like they're a married couple having a trial separation. That's probably closer to the mark than he'd like to admit, but he's not going to say it out loud. Not even to Anna.

"In the middle of the apocalypse?" Her voice rises in disbelief and Sam winces.

"Yeah. I--I'm guessing you know about what happened."

The incredulous expression on her face smoothes into one of sympathy and she puts a hand on his arm. "You're not the only one at fault here, Sam. We all played our parts."

"I know, but I--the things I did..."

"You made a mistake, Sam. You thought you were doing the right thing."

"That's what I told myself." He gives a sharp, bitter bark of laughter, thinks of Cindy McClellan screaming in the trunk of Ruby's car, and shakes his head. "I wanted to believe it."

Anna looks up at him, and for all that she still looks like the fragile, frightened girl he and Dean rescued in that church, there's something else in her eyes, an otherworldly glint that hints at strength and age and compassion.

"You know what the greatest sin of all is, Sam?"

"Setting Lucifer free and starting the apocalypse?"

She waves a hand. "No. Those are outcomes. They aren't sins in and of themselves."

"Pride?"

She gives him a small, rueful smile. "That was Lucifer's sin, yes. And maybe it's yours. I'm not here to judge you." She hefts herself up onto the hood of the truck. "They caught me, you know. The night you escaped from Bobby's."

Sam feels a surge of anger. "You're the one who let me out?"

"No." Anna shakes her head, and Sam deflates. He doesn't know if she's telling the truth, but he doesn't know why she would lie, either. "That's not my point. They took me back, and they tried to convince me that they were right: that God was gone, that he'd forsaken us, and it was time to end the world. That fighting the final battle was the only way to ease the pain of abandonment."

Sam tries to suppress the shiver that runs down his spine. "You didn't agree."

"I like the world," she says. "I think it's got a lot going for it." Her mouth twists wryly. "That's why I fell in the first place."

"So, Lucifer's sin was pride and yours was envy?"

She shrugs and gives a little nod. "I suppose you could call it that. But you know what Zachariah's sin is, Sam?"

"Being a pompous asshole?"

She laughs. "No. Or, well, not just that. It's not even disobedience, though that's a capital offense upstairs, and he's certainly guilty of it." She turns to look him directly in the eye. "It's despair, Sam. The repudiation of hope."

He thinks of the long, ugly days he spent without Dean, trying to find ways of bringing him back. He remembers the sick feeling of despair, like the warm coppery taste of blood in his mouth, that he could have vengeance if he couldn't have hope. He shakes his head.

"I know it's crazy, but Dean will find a way. He always does." Sam blinks back the unexpected sting of tears. "Probably get himself killed doing it."

"Probably," she allows. "He'd have better odds if you were with him."

Sam shakes his head. "No. He doesn't trust me. And I don't blame him for that."

"You can't prove yourself trustworthy if you're not with him."

"I don't trust me either."

"Act as if you have faith and faith shall be given to you. Or, as a great man once said, fake it till you make it."

"Anna--"

She cups his cheek, her hand warm and soft. "You need to forgive yourself, Sam. That's the first step, and the hardest one, but you can do it." She laughs again and shakes her head. "I gave your brother the same advice, though I doubt he's taken it."

With the rustle of wings, she's gone, but Sam can still feel the heat of her hand on his skin.

He takes out his phone, scrolls through his contacts until he finds Dean. His hand hovers over the talk button, but he can't bring himself to press it. Not yet. But someday soon, he thinks, he will. He hopes Dean will take the call.

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Anna quotes Leo McGarry. Title from "The Shape I Found You In" by Girlyman.


End file.
